The Life Between
by Naytopia
Summary: A first time fanfic attempting to "fill in the blanks" between the major events in DA:O and explore character motiviations and progression. Rated "M" in anticipation of future chapters and for safety's sake.
1. Falling Apart

**A/N: **Ooooh, this is _scary_. I just recently began reading fan fiction--seriously, I mean like _this week_. I've barely scratched the surface of what's out there to read and enjoy, of what I've pointedly overlooked for so long, but I've managed to shed most, if not all, of my pre-conceived notions about it, mostly thanks to some super great stories by Crisium and NotLaura (and a few others almost equally astounding--hats off to you all). I'm a reader by nature, so of course writing appeals to me _in theory_. I've edited a couple of manuscripts, one that is actually about to be published. I'm an English tutor at the local community college. I've got mad essay skills (even if I do say so myself). However, I'm usually self-aware enough to keep my tentative (and questionable) attempts at fiction to myself. Grammar and mechanics don't carry quite the same level of import in fiction as they do in expository writing, after all. In fact, they can be somewhat of a hindrance. Yet because I find myself in such awe of these writers who somehow manage to take already well-known, well-written, well-developed, well-loved stories and characters and create _new_ stories and interactions amongst those characters, I feel like I have to take the plunge at least once. After all, if I can read what others have the bravery to lay bare from their own private thoughts and imaginations and then have the temerity to critique said others' work, should I not also be bold enough to accept that same sort of exposure? I say this is scary because I'm loath to mishandle something that I personally love so very much. If I _do_ mishandle it, forgive me, but don't hesitate to tell me so (gently if you please). I promise no one will be sorrier than I in such a circumstance.

**About this story: **So I love, love, LOVE _Dragon Age: Origins _(three cheers for BioWare & EA, big props to them for _their_--i.e. not _my_--characters and world and words--where applicable). I love it perhaps a little more than what might be considered strictly "appropriate," especially in regards to my favorite Grey Warden, Alistair (just ask my husband). I have nothing but respect and adoration and much, much appreciation for the game's writers. I don't really feel so much that the story is _lacking_ anything, per se, as much as I feel that there are some unexplored/undisclosed subtexts that totally speak to me. The following story is what I like to think happens in between all the major stuff, the things that we don't get to hear being said, the transitions that we know take place but that we don't get to witness. Let's call it reading between the lines and hope that that's not _too_ far off the mark. If you're with me so far, let's keep going. But be warned: _Here there be SPOILERS_.

* * *

Lucy Cousland really did _not_ understand how she came to be in charge of this motley crew. Wasn't it just days ago that she had been "Yes, father"-ing and "If you say so, mother"-ing and "I just wish I could go with you, Fergus"-ing? And wasn't it just _hours_ ago that she was distressed and confused and lonely and lost and depending entirely upon Duncan (a total stranger, just by-the-by) to tell her where to go and what to do? And now, just like that, she was supposed to be a _leader_? A leader to several not-entirely-stable people (and one dog)? Just like that? Really?

~***~

She could admit that she'd been more than a little jealous of Ser Gilmore when she'd heard that he'd be attempting to join the Grey Wardens. Seeing an actual Grey Warden in her home had probably been the highlight of her life up to that point. She was in awe and positively brimming with questions. This Warden, this Duncan, was the embodiment of all Lucy ever dreamt she might become, of all that she honored and held in esteem.

Lucy had always preferred stories about the brave knights and unsuspected heroes who emerged victorious from brutal battles with savage beasts over the dramatic tales of damsels in distress and lusty maidens on the verge of sexual initiation. Not to say that she hadn't read her fair share about the damsels and maidens as well. She had. Oh, of _course_ she had. She was a young woman, after all. A young woman perhaps a little too sheltered and inexperienced in the ways of the world. Often, she could find both knights and damsels or heroes and maidens in the same tale (and in one especially risqué tome, she'd actually found a tale involving all four).

But damsels and maidens aside--and distress and lust, too, if you please--she wanted to _be_ that storied knight, that bold hero. In all honesty, she often wanted to be the damsel or maiden, too…but not for the same reasons. Knights and heroes actually _did_ something in all of Lucy's favorite tales. Well…so did the damsels and maidens. But knights and heroes did something that they might want other people to _see_ and _know about_. Lucy didn't think any of those damsels or maidens would want an audience to witness their…accomplishments.

So of course, she wanted desperately for a chance to prove herself to the Warden, to show that she was strong and capable. But with her father and brother both headed off to Ostagar, and her mother all but terrified at the prospect of losing one or, Maker forbid, _both_ of them, Lucy resigned herself to simply dreaming and reading about a level of glory that she quite probably would never actually achieve. With a moody sigh, yes, but a _quiet and respectful_ moody sigh. Had she known that her wildest (and vaguest) dreams were about to come true in such a horrific way, she would have sooner leapt from the nearest Chantry spire than wished for adventure and excitement ever again.

She was quite sure that the only reason Duncan had been able to lead her through the servants' exit and out of Highever castle was that she'd spent so much of her life being obedient and agreeable that even the sight of her suicidally brave mother clinging to her blood-drenched and dying father couldn't quite break through her shock and disgust and utter bewilderment to unhinge her deeply ingrained composure. Perhaps that was a blessing, though. If she had actually been able to _feel_ or _understand _anything at the time, Duncan would've had to physically drag her kicking, screaming, clawing, and spitting from her parents, regardless of the grisly certain death at the hands of Howe's men that awaited her otherwise.

She wasn't sure how long it took them to reach Ostagar. She wasn't even sure that she'd been awake or breathing since leaving the castle. The first thing that she remembered coherently, the thing that finally pierced the fog of her thoughts, was hearing the phrase "Bryce's youngest." When she looked up and saw that it was the king speaking to her, she nearly choked. It was like she had only just opened her eyes, and the first thing she saw upon waking was the most powerful man in all of Fereldan.

Despite the rage and crushing sadness that threatened to overwhelm her at the mention of her father's name, her lifetime of training took over and she managed to be courteous and deferential. Amazing really, since she wanted nothing more than to reach out and slap and shake King Cailan until he understood that _her whole life_ was over, that _the whole world_ was coming to an end, that _somebody _had to pay, that he had to _do something_. Now.

Still, somehow, _somehow_, she managed to hold on to her newly regained consciousness. Maybe it was the king's mention of finding Fergus or of hanging Howe. While the latter brought with it a sort of cold comfort, the idea of telling her brother about what had happened left a thick, sticky, _bad_ feeling in her stomach. Part of her mind insisted that saying all the terrible things aloud would not only make them true, but also make them _her _fault.

She would have to find him and relay it all eventually, of course, but Duncan was offering new things for her to do in the meantime. Tasks, goals. Do this, go there. Fantastic. Blessedly fantastic. Action. Doing, no thinking. Obeying, no feeling. Rush, rush, rush, no time to grieve today, sorry. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after that. Maybe never.

Lucy couldn't even muster up enough curiosity to ask Duncan what the ritual he'd mentioned was all about. At that point, she would have agreed to ritual _human sacrifice_. Anyone who'd really known her would have immediately recognized her lack of questioning as bizarre. Unfortunately, everyone who'd really known her was either dead or somewhere beyond her reach in the Kokari Wilds. When Duncan mentioned taking Enkidu into camp with him, Lucy furrowed her brow and looked up from the spot on her boot she had been busy memorizing in minute detail.

Enkidu? Had her mabari been with her all this time? Yes, there he was, sitting sullenly on his haunches at Duncan's heels. She cocked her head at him and he mimicked her action perfectly. He whined, and Lucy sighed, immediately sorry for having utterly forgotten him until just then. He was suffering, too. Her family was his family. They'd both lost everything, and she'd been allowing him to suffer alone because she'd been too busy…well, too busy doing nothing, actually. Too busy pointedly not thinking, too busy going out of her way to avoid feeling, too busy trying to be _not alive_.

She squatted in front of the dog and gave him a vigorous scratching around both of his ears. She leaned forward, placing her forehead against his, and whispered, "I'm sorry, friend. I'm back now. I'll try not to go away again if you'll try to help me."

Enkidu barked a quick agreement, and Lucy stood to look at Duncan. Duncan told her that she could find him in camp when she was ready and also to be sure to find Alistair before she did. Lucy gave a brief nod and watched without moving as Duncan led Enkidu across the great bridge that led into Ostagar.

Duncan had told her she could look around a bit if she liked, so she thought she might as well do so while she prepared herself as best she could to face other people. It wouldn't do if she were to find this Alistair and then crack into a million tiny pieces because she couldn't bear the thought of anyone recognizing the turmoil in her soul. Whether that was the result of pride, insecurity, or fierce territoriality she did not know nor care. She knew simply that it was true, and so she would compose herself and shore up her emotional walls before seeking out the man whom Duncan wanted her to find.

She found a quiet place across from what a guard told her was the Tower of Ishall (strictly off-limits, he'd said) and sank down onto the ground and sobbed. She sobbed for her mother and father, she sobbed for Oren and Oriana, she sobbed for Ser Gilmore, and Nan, and Aldous, and all the others. She sobbed for Fergus. Mostly, she sobbed for herself. Her body rocked and shook with the sadness. She moaned and wailed and growled and cursed (as quietly as she possibly could, which really wasn't very). She pounded her fists into the ground beneath her. She kicked her feet like a child throwing a tantrum. She yanked at her hair and rubbed at her eyes and clawed at her leather armor. She wrung the grief out of herself like she would have wrung water from a cloth. She gave herself this release and then collapsed onto her back, staring into the sky above. A wonder that the sky still held its place in this world gone so wrong.

As she lay on the ground, completely unmindful of anyone who might pass by and see her in such a state, she measured her breaths. She did not close her eyes. Instead, she focused on the sky and on taking the next breath. When she no longer felt as though her chest was caving in, when she no longer felt the sting of tears in her eyes or their burning path down her cheeks, when she no longer felt that her head might explode with the sheer incredibility of everything that was happening, of everything that had _already_ happened, she sat up and looked around.

There in the grass at Ostagar, beside a crumbling pillar, Lucy resolved to live, to do what she must do, to make it to the next day, and the next, and the next until there were no more days. She resolved to be her parents' daughter, to make their sacrifice worthwhile. She would not dissolve or become someone other than, _less_ than, who she had been raised to be. And they had raised her to be strong and good. They had raised her to make the right decisions, to be just and fair, to make the most of whatever she happened to be faced with, to set goals and to attain them.

Lucy's immediate goal was to become a Grey Warden, and that required following Duncan's orders and instructions. So, with grim determination, she did.

The determination lasted, the grim, however, did not fare quite so well nor nearly so long. In fact, the grim began to slip away the very moment that she spotted the man whom she assumed to be Alistair arguing with a man in a…dress? No, not a dress. A robe. A _mage's_ robe.

Upon speaking with Alistair for the first time, Lucy's signature curiosity began to emerge from within her battered mind, and each moment she spent in his company lured it further and further out of its hidey-hole. She questioned him to an extent that might have sent many others running for the hills, yet he managed to remain gracious and even encouraging.

When she heard herself laugh at something he said, she thought at first that the she might have actually, finally lost her mind. She couldn't see anyone else near to them who was laughing. Lucy stood, mouth agape, eyes reflecting her confusion. It had been her laughter she'd heard, and it was genuine. She hated herself for being able to laugh, and she hated him a little bit for _making_ her laugh. Didn't he know that her world had recently crumbled down around her ears? Didn't he know that she could never experience happiness again? Didn't he know that her heart and soul were shriveled and dead? How _dare_ he make her laugh?

Lucy tried to hang onto the offense and horror, but it quickly began to fade away (hot on the trail of all her grim). By the time she had met Ser Jory and Daveth and they had together gathered the necessary darkspawn blood and retrieved the Wardens' treaties, she was beginning to feel something like a normal person. Not really the _same_ person exactly, but a person, nonetheless.

Nary a whimper escaped her lips as she watched Daveth succumb to the poison she was about to follow him in drinking, and she barely flinched when Duncan killed Ser Jory. She made it through the joining ritual and survived the shock and pain of it all. It was all as nothing compared to what she had so recently experienced, or more accurately, what she was _still _experiencing. She met with King Cailan, Teyrn Loghain, and Duncan and nodded in all the right places and said "Yes, Your Majesty," and "I'll do my best, Your Majesty," and she even managed to not roll her eyes at Cailan's ignorance or Loghain's arrogance. With Alistair and Enkidu at her side, she fought her way to the top of the Tower of Ishall and lit the beacon just as she'd been ordered to do, and she didn't cry out when she saw the tide of darkspawn surging up from the lower levels of the tower and realized the inevitability of being overwhelmed by their numbers.

She was surprised but not panicked when she woke up in the witches' hut an unknown length of time later. She was inexplicably pleased to discover that Alistair had also survived the tower, but she thought she hid it well enough. She successfully suppressed a traitorous surge of…glee? no, surely not that…at his obvious happiness and relief when she emerged from the hut. It was difficult (watching his expression was a little like seeing her first sunrise), but she did it. She did not fall to her knees in thanks to the Maker that Enkidu also survived the ordeal. She did not fold and break when she discovered that nearly everyone at Ostagar had been slaughtered or spirited away by the horde. She did not storm and rage over Loghain's betrayal. She did not whine or complain or argue when the old witch insisted that she and Alistair take the younger witch with them. She listened to what both witches had to say and was mindful to be appropriately grateful and courteous and kind. When Alistair made no decision but only looked to her, she decided for them both.

They made it into Lothering proper before Lucy's intense introspection was interrupted by the witch's cruel voice saying _more_ unkind words. Doubtlessly to Alistair. Again. Morrigan got no rise from Lucy and would not deign to speak to Enkidu, so her sole form of entertainment for the duration of their trek to Lothering had been mocking and taunting Alistair. Until their entrance into the village itself, Lucy hadn't spared a thought as to why Alistair wasn't bothering to stand up for himself, to tell the witch to shut up, to back off. But that voice, that voice that simply _dripped _with disdain, finally sliced into her thoughts and made her pay attention.

Until that moment, Lucy had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts and megrims that she'd never spared a thought for poor Alistair. From what she understood, Duncan had been something like a father to him, the Grey Wardens his only family, and he'd just lost it all. Had she honestly thought that she was the only one capable of feeling the pain of loss and loneliness? As soon as she was able, after calling Morrigan off of her apparent favorite punching bag, Lucy pulled Alistair aside and asked if he needed to talk. As it turned out, he did. She listened and sincerely commiserated. Her heart broke for him a little. A truly astounding feat in and of itself, considering the number of pieces it had already been reduced to.

She would pay much more attention to her traveling companions' feelings from now on (including Morrigan's because, no matter how she might protest the fact, Morrigan was a person, too). Now that she remembered that someone other than she _had_ feelings, she planned on retaining the memory. And she withdrew further from her personal fog.

She made it through Lothering, somehow collecting two more outcasts and unwanteds. A murderous qunari and an addled lay sister, no less. She faced soldiers and peasants alike who were out for the blood of the Grey Wardens who had betrayed the king and their own brethren at Ostagar. She hardly cared _why_ anyone would believe something so absurd. She helped as many people in Lothering as she could, even taking the time to learn trap-making for the sake of one pitiful, terrified woman. She was particularly proud of convincing Morrigan to use her herbalism talents to help the many refugees crammed into the village. She sorted out petty squabbles and hunted beasts of both the human and animal varieties. She silently bore Morrigan's jibes about wasting time and energy on such trivial pursuits. Lucy did all this despite knowing that all she did might truly be for naught. She knew that Lothering was a lost cause, but she had to _try_, damn it.

So she tried. She tried to help and she tried to make herself stay attuned to the people around her. Her companions. An ex-templar, a witch, a qunari, a lay sister of the Chantry (although, Lucy had never seen this sister's like before and seriously doubted that she had yet told all she had to tell), a mabari hound, and the sole surviving daughter of the noble Cousland family. Quite a group. Eclectic to say the very least. And why, oh _why,_ did she get the feeling that she wasn't even nearly done yet?

She had apparently also gained a pet merchant and his son at some point. She hadn't the energy or heart to question their presence, so she let them be. In any case, it might come in handy having the fellows so near to hand.

That first night in camp, she took time to seek out each member of her traveling party and make a point of getting to know them better. And if she spent an incongruous portion of her evening speaking to Alistair, what of it? They certainly had enough over which to bond. Who could fault her?

No, she did not know _how_ she had come to lead these people (and dog), and she did not know _why _the task of leading should fall to her. But since it had, she swore to herself that she would take care of these people. No matter what they had been before, they were hers now, and she was determined to protect what was hers no matter the cost to herself. She had already lost everything that had ever mattered to her once. She would not relive that kind of loss ever again. Not ever.

* * *

_Thanks for bearing with me thus far. I know it's a whopper. If you like it, let me know, and I'll try to carry on. If you hate it, let me know, and I'll punish myself accordingly. Or, you know, try to get better or something. All thoughts welcome and appreciated, but kindly remember that this is my first time. Is it weird that I kind of feel like I just gave birth? *shrug* I just hope it's not an ugly baby ;)_


	2. Coming Together

**A/N: **I didn't want to change any of the brilliant dialogue that already exists within the game, so I'll probably be using quite a bit of it from here on in. Any dialogue in underlined quotations ("blah, blah, blah") is pulled directly from _Dragon Age: Origins _and is the property of BioWare and EA Games.

* * *

Alistair and Morrigan both had opinions about where to go after Lothering, but this decision, like so many others before it, fell to Lucy alone. Morrigan's suggestion that they simply seek out Loghain and cut him down appealed to Lucy's more primal inclinations, but she had enough sense yet about her to recognize the pointlessness and foolishness of taking such action. She had already risked enough by not only allowing the men who'd attacked them in Lothering's only tavern to live but sending them with a message to Loghain: _We know, and we're coming_. Alistair urged that they travel to Redcliffe before making any other decisions. He grew more insistent when they discovered from a traveling knight that Arl Eamon was gravely ill.

Of course Lucy knew a bit about Eamon and Redcliffe, but she personally had no desire to find herself in the company of nobles who would be sure to ask after her parents and brother. And if, in the midst of all the tragedy at Ostagar and the impending darkspawn threat, anyone had happened to take note of the fact that her whole family was dead (or in the case of Fergus, simply _presumed_ dead), then she would have to face "condolences" and "sympathy." Neither scenario was particularly appealing. In fact, she thought she might be glad to never see another noble for the rest of her life.

Her family's nobility certainly hadn't boded very well for them. One noble's plotting and jealousy and ambition--things that seemed forever to fall hand-in-hand with nobility--had destroyed everything she'd ever known or loved, and another's had robbed her (and Alistair) of any hope of ever replacing what had been lost. Howe's treachery crushed the Couslands, and Loghain's annihilated any possibility of Lucy finding a surrogate family among the Grey Wardens. No, she didn't feel much kinship with or love for Fereldan's nobility anymore.

Although her heart balked at traveling to Redcliffe to ask Eamon's assistance, she saw how desperately Alistair wanted to see the man and assess the severity of the old Arl's illness himself. If Alistair, her comrade in arms, _needed_ to go to Redcliffe for his peace of mind, then she would swallow her personal dread and lead them there. His relieved smile when she told them all what she'd decided made her heart pause in an entirely different way. She frowned gave herself a mental shake. She ignored the inexplicable ball of warmth threatening to bloom in the pit of her stomach. What was _wrong_ with her?

Leliana offered to cook dinner that evening, and since she and Alistair had quickly discovered that their own cooking skills left much to be desired, Lucy gratefully accepted the offer. Watching her work around the campfire, Lucy reflected that Leliana seemed entirely too excited to have been accepted into a group headed resolutely toward their certain deaths. Sten, on the other hand, at least had the decency to look appropriately stern and disapproving at Alistair's apparent _constant _fidgeting. And Morrigan…well Morrigan was simply disinterested. In everything.

When Lucy had asked the Chantry sister about her desire to fall in with outlaw Grey Wardens, the woman had responded with something about a vision from the Maker. Right. Lucy knew she'd have to discuss this "vision" with Leliana eventually, but for now she was too tired and confused and…angry? scared? heartsick? _some_ other emotion, anyway. Had she always had this many emotions? She couldn't clearly recall, but she thought not.

Feeling that she'd done her duty for the evening as far as making a genuine effort to get to know each of the people with whom she now traveled, Lucy allowed herself the luxury/punishment of retreating into her own head for a while. She moved as far away from the others as possible without actually leaving the fire's warmth and light. She sat on the cold, hard ground and hugged her legs against her body, resting her chin on her knees and slowly rocking back and forth. Her eyes were open but unseeing. She heard nothing but the rush and howl of her own breath and thoughts.

Thoroughly enveloped in her private torture chamber as she was, Lucy did not hear Alistair's panicked warning to look out. In fact, she had almost completely forgotten that other people existed. However, the scalding bits of Leliana's dinner (which, she noted through the searing pain, actually smelled rather good) landing all over her brought her quickly and wholly out of her miserable reverie.

She squealed and leapt to her feet, franticly shaking her head and batting at her arms and chest to remove the steaming bits of…is this rabbit? Oh! Did it _really_ matter? (Yes. Yes, it _did _matter, she realized. She suddenly felt like she was absolutely _starving_.)Angry red splotches appeared on every area of her exposed skin, and she felt tears stinging her eyes. Before she could fully grasp what had happened, another pair of hands was upon her, trying to remove as much of the mess as possible. She was in so much pain that she didn't care whose hands they were until they moved up to her breast, sweeping and swatting and suddenly _slowing down_. This "help" seemed to be turning into something suspiciously similar to _caressing_ rather rapidly.

Lucy inhaled sharply, jerked her head up, and saw that the hands belonged to Alistair. His face showed all the same embarrassment and dismay that she felt. He had apparently just noticed that his innocent attempt at assistance had become suddenly, grossly inappropriate, and he groaned as he looked up from his half-crouched position in front of Lucy and met her eyes. Her very wide, astonished eyes.

"Oh…um…I-I," he stammered, only belatedly realizing that he still hadn't removed his hands from Lucy's chest when she glanced quickly from his face to his hands and back again. He jerked his hands away and held them, palms out in front of himself in an odd sort of warding-off gesture, as if he were the one who'd been burned. Lucy could only continue to stare at him, her mouth ajar.

Alistair moved both hands to cover his face and shook his head. His hands slid into his hair and he made himself look at her. "Oh…," he groaned. "Dear Maker…I…I'm so sorry…I just…I was only trying to…I-I wanted to bring you some dinner. You looked a little preoccupied, and I thought…and then…oh, _Maker_, but I'm sorry. I didn't mean to spill it all over you or to…to…_you know_…I. Am. _So_. Sorry." He let out a low moan and hung his head, shaking it in disbelief.

Lucy snapped her mouth shut and fought back a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. She struggled to maintain control of her voice as she reached out tentatively to touch his shoulder. "It's…it's okay. Really. I…thank you. For the food, I mean. I…I appreciate it."

Without raising his head, he glanced up at her, one eyebrow raised, his lips twitching into a half-smile. "_Really_? _Do _you? You appreciate being showered with piping hot food and then…_groped _by strange men?"

Hearing his obvious horror at the word "groped," she could no longer keep the laughter pinned behind her teeth, and she choked out a sound that was something between a snort and a guffaw, which was quickly followed by a rolling belly laugh, which in turn dissolved into a fit of hysterical giggling. She clutched her stomach and permitted herself to ride the wave of laughter out to its natural conclusion. There was no longer any sense in fighting it.

Alistair raised his head to watch her, smiling but still utterly bewildered. As the giggles tapered off into wheezes and huffs, he reached out to pluck a piece of meat that had remained snagged in her hair. He held it up in front of her briefly before she snatched it from his fingers and popped it into her mouth. He gasped and his mouth formed a perfect O of surprise, and that served to send her into fresh gales of laughter.

When she finally managed to catch her breath again, she shrugged and said, "I really do appreciate the thought, Alistair. Well…the thought of bringing me something to eat, that is. Not the…other. Not that I'm saying you've been thinking about doing that or anything! Just…oh, never mind," she sighed. "I'm just so damned _hungry_. And my…" she made a vague, waving gesture at her chest and arms. "My _burns_ hurt," she finished, immediately regretting the pouty note she heard in her voice.

She collapsed onto the ground and wrapped her arms around her midsection, looking up at a very chagrined Alistair. Her stomach hurt from laughing so much, her skin hurt from being pelted by her supper, and she really _was_ quite hungry. He cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "Right. I'll just…go see if there's any more then, shall I?"

He returned in short order (walking oh-so-carefully, mind) with two plates full of whatever dish Leliana had cooked. She looked up at him with a warm smile of sincere gratitude as he handed one of the plates down to her. He stood over her for a moment, seeming to debate something with himself. She kept looking at him until he eventually spoke.

"Do you, uh…that is, would you mind if…if I joined you?" It was difficult to be certain in the firelight, but Lucy thought that he might've been blushing.

She felt her own blush rising into her cheeks and moved her eyes from him onto the plate in her lap. She shook her head. "No. Not at all. That would be…nice," she said without looking at him.

Lucy watched from the corner of her eye as Alistair lowered himself onto the ground beside her, cradling his plate in both hands and keeping his arms extended far away from the both of them until he was firmly situated.

They sat for a while in silence, both spooning what was indeed some sort of rabbit stew into their mouths and staring into the fire. The stew tasted as good as its smell had promised it would. Lucy tried to maintain a mannerly pace as she ate, but it was more difficult than she could have anticipated. Before she knew it, she had cleaned her plate. She looked askance at Alistair's plate, half hoping that he might have some left that she could somehow part from him, but his plate was squeaky clean as well. She sighed and looked back into the fire, trying to come to terms with a certainty that she'd never experience the feeling of being truly full ever again.

She could hear sounds from around the camp of the others readying themselves for sleep. She couldn't remember if she or Alistair was supposed to take the first watch this evening. She supposed she would offer to take it. She didn't feel particularly sleepy, and besides, she'd had some rather disturbing dreams lately. Dreams she wasn't eager to revisit any time in the near future. Or at all, really.

Lucy felt herself slipping back into that lonely headspace she'd been trying so hard to leave behind, so she blurted out the first thing that came to her mind, desperately searching for any excuse not to be sucked back into futile and fervent solipsistic brooding. "Redcliffe!" she not-quite-shouted.

Alistair turned to face her, looking startled, confused, and perhaps a little worried. "Sorry, what?"

"Uh…I mean, Arl Eamon…in Redcliffe…you, uh, said that he raised you, right?"

He looked away for a moment before sighing and answering, "Did I say that? I meant that dogs raised me. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels. A whole pack of them."

Lucy chuckled. "Oh, I see. That _would_ explain your, er,…_unique_…fragrance."

He never missed a beat, only gave a little shrug. "Well, it wasn't until I was eight that I discovered you didn't have to lick yourself clean. Old habits die hard, you know."

"Oh!" Lucy laughed. "And _there's_ the explanation for the _breath_, as well!"

Alistair grinned. "And my table manners, too. Though, come to think of it, they weren't all that different from the other templars. Or did I dream all of that? Funny the dreams you'll have when you sleep on the cold, hard ground, isn't it? Are you having strange dreams?"

She was a little taken aback at how near he was to hitting the mark, but she rallied herself quickly enough, even managing to laugh again. "Well…I've had some quite vivid dreams all involving strangling you. Though I don't know that those qualify as 'strange.' I may not be the only person in this camp dreaming such things."

He clutched his hands against his heart and batted his eyes at her innocently. "You would do violence? Upon me? I am shocked and dismayed. The dogs would never threaten me like this, you know," he pouted.

Lucy laughed again and smiled at him, not really expecting him to go on. She gathered that he felt somewhat uncomfortable about the subject. She hadn't meant to pry, just to get him talking so that she might be able to think of something other than her own misery and woe. To her surprise, he did go on.

"Let's see," he sighed. "How do I explain this? I'm a bastard."

She opened her mouth to tell him that she was sorry for butting in, that he didn't have to tell her, but he only raised his hand to her and kept talking, smiling that slanted smile of his that she was beginning to find so unnervingly disarming.

"And before you make any smart comments, I mean the fatherless kind. My mother was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle who died when I was very young. Arl Eamon wasn't my father, but he took me in anyhow and put a roof over my head. He was good to me, and he didn't have to be. I respect the man and I don't blame him anymore for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough."

Her curiosity overrode her embarrassment at so thoroughly nosing into matters that were none of his business. "You don't _still_ blame him? After he sent you away, just like that?"

Alistair looked at her for a moment, considering, then sighed and shrugged. "I was young and resentful and not very pious. Of course I blamed him. I remember screaming at him like a little child…well I was a child, so I doubt he was surprised."

"But why? Why did he send you away in the first place, I mean?"

He kept his eyes on his hands as he replied. "Arl Eamon eventually married a young woman from Orlais, which caused all sorts of problems between him and the king because it was so soon after the war. But he loved her. So off I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten. Just as well. The arlessa made sure the castle wasn't a home to me by that point. She despised me."

"For what? What could you have possibly done to deserve that?" Lucy asked, outraged. "What kind of horrid woman could do that to a child? That's awful!"

Alistair raised his eyes to hers and gave her a half-hearted smile. "Maybe. She felt threatened by my presence, I can see that now. I can't say I blame her. She wondered if the rumors were true herself, I bet."

"Still…," she said. She tried to imagine the heartless creature who could have shunted a young boy out of the only home he'd ever known simply because she worried that he _might_ be her new husband's illegitimate son. She wondered why, if he was as good a man as Alistair insisted he was, Eamon would have allowed her to do it.

"I remember I had an amulet with Andraste's holy symbol on it," Alistair nearly whispered, gazing out into the night. His mouth was twisted with a bitter smile. "The only thing I had of my mother's. I was so furious at being sent away I tore it off and threw it at the wall and it shattered."

Lucy wanted to take his hand or wrap her arm around his shoulder or _something_ to offer comfort. He looked absolutely forlorn, and she hated that she'd drudged this all up for him with a stupid, pointless question.

He sighed heavily. "Stupid, stupid thing to do."

She reached out and lightly placed her hand on top of his, offering him a weak smile of sympathy and understanding.

He looked into her face, searching for something she did not know what. He did his best to return her smile. "The arl came by the monastery a few times to see how I was, but I was stubborn. I hated it there and blamed him for everything…and eventually he just stopped coming." His last sigh sounded as if it might have come from the darkest depths of his very soul. Even though he had been the one wronged, he was shamed by the memory of his own behavior.

It made Lucy sad in a way that couldn't be attributed to empathy alone. "Alistair, you were just a boy. Don't…don't continue to beat yourself up, please." She squeezed his hand in hers and stared into his eyes, willing him to see her sincerity. "You were young."

He gave her hand a reciprocating squeeze before releasing it and looking down into his lap, seeming to gather himself. When he looked up again, his smile was close enough to genuine to ease some of Lucy's concern for him. "And raised by dogs," he said in an overly cheery voice. Lucy gave a small laugh, but never took her eyes from his. Alistair sagged a little and took a deep breath. "Or I may as well have been, the way I acted. But maybe all young bastards act like that, I don't know. All I know is that the arl is a good man and well-loved by the people. He was also King Cailan's uncle, so he has a personal motivation to see Loghain pay for what he did. Anyway…that's really all there is to the story."

Lucy watched him rise from his seat beside her and stretch his arms high above his head, one hand gripping the other. Her self-pity had been temporarily replaced with her sadness for Alistair.

"If you don't mind taking the first watch tonight, I think I'll turn in. I suddenly feel very tired," he said. She nodded her assent.

As he turned to walk toward his bedroll, Lucy called out to him. "Alistair?" he stopped and turned to face her, eyebrows arched in an unspoken inquiry. "I…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried. That was…none of my business and I shouldn't have…overstepped your boundaries. I-I didn't mean to upset you. I really am sorry. Next time, just tell me to butt out, and I will."

The smile that lit his features was the definite article this time. He laughed quietly and narrowed his eyes at her. "And who am _I_ to scold you for overstepping boundaries?" He raised his right hand to shoulder level, palm out. "Creepy groper, remember?" She laughed. "In any case, it's okay. No need to apologize. I suppose I sort of _needed_ to say it all to someone eventually. And if you're going to be responsible for leading us in all this insanity, then there are some things you've got a right to ask about. A _duty_, really. Never be afraid to ask me something. If I really don't want to answer, I'll just make up a ridiculous lie and hope you're never any the wiser."

Lucy laughed with mixed amusement and relief. "So you're not…angry or annoyed with me or anything?" she asked.

"No," he answered, shaking his head. He stared at her for a few seconds longer before smiling broadly. "Anyway, good night. I'll, uh, I'll see you when it's my turn for watch."

She returned his smile and nodded, wondering why she felt so lightheaded all of a sudden. And were those goose bumps covering her arms and upper chest? She thought they actually might be. _How odd_, she mused.


	3. On the Brink

Lucy and her new companions spent almost the entirety of the next day traveling the road between Lothering and Redcliffe. Occasionally they encountered stray bands of darkspawn, but the Wardens and their allies were able to face them down with little trouble each time. As they traveled, they talked with one another.

Lucy smiled to herself as their conversations became easier, more natural. Soon, she heard laughter and joking. True, most of the laughter issued from Alistair's mouth and most of the jokes were at his expense, but the others were building a certain camaraderie with one another, too. Even Sten, for all his stoicism, could not resist the temptation to tease Alistair a bit and exchange jibes with Morrigan. And Leliana seemed determined to become friendly with everyone, whether they liked it or not.

She was glad of it all. If she must trust them to guard her back, to fight at her side, and if they must trust her to do the same for them, it would be better if they liked (or at least respected) each other. And of course, meal times would be infinitely more comfortable without all the suspicious glaring and sidelong stares.

Before she knew it, the day had grown dim, and it was time to make camp for the night. By midday tomorrow, they would reach Redcliffe. Lucy had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She would rather have gone to almost any place in the world other than Redcliffe. The things Alistair had told her about his boyhood experiences in Redcliffe did not reassure her. No matter how many times Alistair insisted that Eamon was a good man, a man whose help they needed, Lucy could not help but doubt that a truly good man would marry a malevolent wretch, a malevolent _Orlesian_ wretch no less, and then cast out a child who loved and depended upon him.

To her, Eamon sounded no better than any other petty, self-absorbed, callous Fereldan noble. Her parents being who they had been, Lucy knew that true nobility involved much more than a title. Honor, compassion, loyalty, honesty, bravery, kindness, and decency for instance. Of late, it seemed too few who possessed noble titles also possessed those essential noble qualities.

Yet Alistair clearly worried for the man. After seeing him grieve so intensely for Duncan, a process with which he was still struggling, Lucy surmised that he simply could not bear the loss of another father figure, no matter how flawed and undeserving of his devotion that father figure may be. She would do her best to make sure that he would never have to if it was in her power to prevent it. If that meant smiling into the face of someone who disgusted her and made her ashamed of her social position, so be it. As a teyrn's daughter, it certainly would not be the first time she had done so. She was actually rather adept at it.

Lucy looked over the campsite they had chosen for the night, her mind almost instantly evaluating its defensibility. She found it amusing and a little frightening how quickly one could become accustomed to thinking like a soldier when suddenly finding oneself in the midst of war. She was not the only one calculating distances and assessing visibility from various positions around their rough circle. It seemed every other eye in camp was busy with estimations and judgments.

Well, every other eye but for the two that belonged to Alistair. He seemed to have one eye on the fire he was building and the other on Lucy herself. Satisfied with her inspection of the outlying area, Lucy turned and caught his glance. She stopped short, half in common surprise, half in something decidedly uncommon and unidentifiable--but not entirely unpleasant or unwelcome. Flustered for no reason she could explain, she hurriedly busied herself with the usual make-camp rituals.

As she unrolled her bedroll (back firmly to Alistair and his damnable beguiling eyes), Lucy made a mental note to be sure to purchase tents before leaving Redcliffe. She and Alistair had lost everything they weren't carrying with them when Ostagar fell; as a member of the Chantry, Leliana didn't own very much of anything to begin with; Sten had been a prisoner immediately before joining the party and so had even less than the rest of them; Morrigan had a tent of sorts, but no inclination to share its shelter; and Lothering had had nothing to spare for the travelers, having given all it had to give to the swarm of refugees who now occupied the village. Lucy didn't necessarily mind sleeping in the open--she was not some soft, pampered girl who shuddered at the thought of dirt and bugs and creepy, crawly beasties--but they had been extraordinarily lucky with the weather thus far, and she did not think that luck would hold out very much longer. Besides, even she needed some semblance of privacy from time to time.

~***~

Lucy sat bolt upright, disoriented and utterly terrified. She desperately clutched the thin blanket against her body with trembling hands, chest heaving, eyes darting all around, searching for some familiar feature of her surroundings that might remind her where she was. Finally, she did spot something: Alistair.

Seeing him seated in front of the fire, calmly staring out into the darkness, brought her brief but violent panic to a gradual, but blessedly quick, halt. She was still at camp, then, on the road to Redcliffe, seeking aid against the coming Blight. Not exactly comforting thoughts, but nothing so horrific could be happening at the moment if Alistair was still keeping watch and not running about screaming with his pants on fire. Clearly she had just been having a particularly nasty nightmare. She sighed audibly, relieved, and Alistair turned to face her, frowning.

"Bad dreams, huh?" he asked her.

Lucy nodded. "It was…awful. It-it felt so…so _real_."

"Well it is real, sort of." She raised an eyebrow questioningly, and he nodded, going on. "You see, part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn. That's what your dream was. Hearing them. The archdemon, it…'talks' to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That's why we know this is really a Blight."

She sat in silence for a moment, considering what Alistair was telling her. If she was understanding him correctly, they were…_linked _somehow to the archdemon. Lucy recalled how blithely Cailan and Loghain had dismissed Duncan's assurances that they were, in fact, facing a Blight and not just an exceptionally large darkspawn raid. She couldn't help but wonder how different things might have been if they had taken Duncan's word and followed his advice.

"Well then why didn't Duncan just _tell_ everyone that? Cailan was bouncing around Ostagar and pounding his chest because he doubted that this is really a Blight. Loghain refused to wait for the reinforcements from Redcliffe and Orlais because _he_ didn't believe it's a Blight either. So why? Why didn't Duncan _say_ something?"

Alistair offered her a weary smile and shook his head. "He did. He said he felt the archdemon's presence. Everyone just assumed he was guessing."

Lucy didn't know what to say to that, so she elected to say nothing at all. After a while, Alistair took her silence as permission to shift the subject back to her night terrors.

"It takes a bit, but eventually you can block the dreams out. Some of the older Grey Wardens say they can understand the archdemon a bit, but I sure can't." Lucy gripped the blanket a little tighter and shivered, her eyes wide and unbelieving. Alistair looked truly sympathetic. "Anyhow, when I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you. It was scary at first for me, too."

She took a few deep breaths and forced herself to bring the blanket down to her lap. With only slightly more difficulty than she would've like to admit, she was also able to make her hands relax and release the much abused blanket. With an almost imperceptible hitch in her muted voice, she met his eyes and said, "Thank you for telling me, Alistair. I…I appreciate it, I guess. Even if it is utterly horrifying and mind-altering, at least I know I'm not alone. It's good to know that even wise-cracking ex-templars get the heebie-jeebies sometimes."

He laughed quietly and bowed his head to her. "That's what I'm here for. To deliver unpleasant news and witty one-liners." Lucy's face broke into a wide grin. "Anyhow, you're up now, right? Let's pull up camp and get a move on." He stood and brushed off the seat of his pants, wincing at the popping sound his knees made after having spent so long in one position.

"Alistair?" Lucy asked, still sitting and craning her neck see his face. He turned and looked at her, waiting for her to go on. "Um…would you mind if…if we talked for a while before waking the others?" Even in the weak light of the fire, Lucy did not fail to notice the look of surprise that stole across his features, momentary though it was. Feeling altogether too awkward for words, she quickly amended the request. "Well…you know, it's…it's just that it's still so early, and…and we've got a long day ahead of us. I-I just thought that we could, um, let them have a bit of a rest. If you'd rather not…err, that is, if you've got something else…oh! Forget it. It was dumb. You're right. Let's just get moving."

Lucy could feel the heat rising from her neck into her face, and she had to fight to keep from bringing the blanket up again, this time to cover her head and hope that it would make her disappear. Or at least make Alistair forget that she was there. Maker's breath! Why did she feel so _awkward_? She had always been sufficiently eloquent at court and among her parents' more refined company. So why, in the name of sweet Andraste, could she not piece together one coherent sentence while sitting on the filthy ground in the middle of nowhere in the company of no one more intimidating than a snoring mabari and a sleeping, albeit testy, witch?

Because she was so intensely focused on her hands as she wrung them together in her lap, and because she was so adamantly avoiding anything even remotely like eye-contact with Alistair, it took her completely by surprise when his knee bumped hers. Temporarily forgetting that looking into his face was sure to cause her to burst into flames, she raised her eyes from her fervently twisting fingers only to find herself eye-to-eye (and almost nose-to-nose, Maker help her) with him. Her lips parted and her mouth became inexplicably dry. She held her breath, afraid to move. She was keenly aware of the feeling of their knees still touching. He wasn't saying anything, only looking at her. _Into_ her, she was suddenly certain. And why was he so _close_?

After what seemed like hours, hours in which Lucy could not move or breath or _think_ because she was so overwhelmed by her own jumbled, nonsensical thoughts, Alistair's lips turned up into an easy, affable smile. "Okay, let's talk," he said.

"Huh?" Lucy was lost and had no hope of recovering herself quickly enough to avoid further embarrassment. She'd forgotten that she had asked him something, that there was a reason for him to have seated himself next to her with that expectant expression he was directing at her. She had forgotten that all she'd wanted was to have a semi-private conversation with someone who might have a decent idea about what she was going through, someone who could share some of her grief and confusion and dismay and perhaps even help her to better understand some of it. Her previously simple, innocent desires were obliterated by a screaming flurry of complex emotions at which she was too aghast to acknowledge, much less identify or examine.

"You're right. It's early yet, and we can get to Redcliffe before it's time for lunch even if we let everyone have a bit of lie-in. So let's talk. What would you like to talk about? Maker knows you've listened to me prattle on enough over the last few days, so you name it. What's on your mind? Are you finally ready to talk about yourself for a change?"

"Um…err, not really, no," Lucy managed at last. "I'm just…I…"

"It's okay," he said, leaning over to give her a companionable nudge on the shoulder. She relaxed visibly and showed her appreciation with a shaky smile. "I understand. When you're ready. So what _will_ we talk about, then?"

"Um…how did you become a Grey Warden?" she asked.

Alistair looked a little taken aback and then laughed. "Same way you did. You drink some blood, you choke on it and pass out. You haven't forgotten already have you?"

Lucy rolled her eyes and groaned. "Oh, yes. You got me. Ha ha. You are _so_ very funny, ser."

"I do my best. What can I say?" he chuckled. "So you're certain this is what you want to talk about? Really? You realize I'm giving you free rein here, we can talk about whatever you like. Honestly. Absolutely anything."

He let the offer hang, waiting on Lucy to change the topic of discussion. What he thought she might change it to she had no way of knowing, but because of the mischievous glint currently dancing in his eyes, she was almost unbearably curious to find out. For one brief, terrifying moment, she got an insane urge to ask him if anyone had ever told him how handsome he was, but she felt that she might literally explode before she would ever be able to force the words from her throat and out past her lips. So instead, she just shook her head and waited for him to answer.

"Let's see," he began. "I was in the Chantry before. I trained for many years to become a templar, in fact. That's where I learned most of my skills."

"Yes, you told me that you used to be a templar. But I'd always thought that templars didn't ever really leave the Chantry, that it was sort of a life-long service kind of thing. And, forgive my saying so, but you don't really seem like the religious sort to begin with."

Alistair laughed heartily. "You're telling me. I was banished to the kitchens to scour the pots more times than I can count. And that's a lot; I can count pretty high."

Lucy's laughter joined his, and they let it taper off naturally before he tried to continue.

"The grand cleric didn't want to let me go. Duncan was forced to conscript me, actually, and was she ever furious when he did. I thought she was going to have us both arrested. I was lucky."

"Why was she so angry? Wouldn't she be eager to send you with Duncan if you were so much trouble?"

He shrugged. "I wondered that myself. It's not as if she valued me highly. I think she just didn't want to give anything to the Grey Wardens, is all."

"Wow, she sounds like a marvelous lady. I can't imagine why you'd be disenchanted with the Chantry after having been exposed to such a glowing example of their loving warmth and acceptance," Lucy laughed, and Alistair smiled at her, his hands held up in mock confusion.

"The Chantry didn't lose much. And I think I can do more fighting the Blight anyhow rather than sitting in a temple somewhere. I'll always be thankful to Duncan for recruiting me. If it hadn't been for him, you know, I would never…I wouldn't have…" Looking ashamed and frustrated, Alistair stopped speaking and turned his head away as he struggled against the tears Lucy had seen sparkling in his eyes.

Bewildered and forcibly reminded of how easily her own mind seemed able to turn almost anything into a painful recollection of her own losses, Lucy reached out and put her hand on his knee. "It's okay, Alistair. It's okay to mourn your loss, to mourn him. Duncan was a fine man. A _good _man."

Lucy could see his throat working in the weak light of the rapidly approaching dawn, but it was some time before he was able to turn his face back to hers.

"He was. A good man who didn't deserve his fate, that much I'm sure of." His voice sounded watery and on the verge of breaking, but it never did. Lucy was shocked an a little worried at the darkness clouding Alistair's features so soon after they had been laughing and smiling together. She wished she could do something for him to lessen his suffering, but she knew that she couldn't do any more for him that she was able to for herself--which boiled down to a great deal of nothing.

Sad and unfair though it was, they would both have to see their suffering through to the end. She just hoped there _was_ an end. Right now, for her at least, it felt like her despair was a great, bottomless chasm, always around the next corner, waiting to surprise her anew with fresh torments and half-healed wounds. She suspected it was much the same for Alistair. He suffered more visibly and vocally than she, but for all of that, she did not think he felt his pain any less acutely. Though Morrigan mocked him for wearing his emotions on his sleeve, Lucy wondered if perhaps he was not better off for it. Certainly, she reaped no reward for swallowing her own. But she would continue to do so because the alternative was to actually have to _feel_ them in all their brutal relentlessness.

Alistair gave a sniff that brought her back from the swirling pool of her thoughts and worries. She watched him as he stood once again. He didn't bother with trying to smile, but his voice was steady enough now.

"Come on, let's go," he said, holding a hand down to her to help her up. "I think I'm done talking."

Lucy nodded and took the proffered hand. She thought she might be done talking for a while, too.


	4. Over the Edge

They made it into Redcliffe village before the sun had reached its apex in the remarkably cloudless sky, and though she thought she hid it fairly well, Lucy was uneasy from the moment they passed through the village's tall wooden gate. She only wished that she could claim that the uneasiness stemmed from her sensing darkspawn nearby or some other tangible harbinger of doom. But no, the twisting, fluttery pressure in her gut was pure nerves. Nerves over Alistair being wrong about the arl, over seeing him disappointed if such turned out to be the case. Nerves over standing before the arl and asking him for aid only to be refused, or worse, imprisoned for the crimes of which Loghain had accused them. At least she could take some comfort in knowing that if anyone tried to arrest them, she and her companions would put up a fearsome resistance.

So with her skin crawling and her nerves tingling, Lucy gave an impressive jump and an equally impressive squeal when Alistair tapped her shoulder and cleared his throat. She whipped around, glaring at him, ashamed for having been caught so completely unawares. He just smiled sheepishly.

"Look, can we talk for a moment? I need to tell you something I, ah, should probably have told you earlier." His uncharacteristically severe expression caused Lucy to grimace involuntarily.

What seemed like hundreds of thoughts crowded her mind at once, most of them absurd and patently illogical. What in Thedas could he possibly need to talk to her about that demanded such grave seriousness? Was he an outlaw in Redcliffe, wanted for some sinister crime? Was Eamon ardently opposed to Grey Wardens, or mages, or qunari, or Chantry sisters, or mabari, or…? Did Alistair have a lover tucked away here that he wanted to warn her about? Lucy could feel the blood draining from her face, and she began to feel ill.

"Oh, Maker…I'm not going to like this, am I?" she choked, fighting her steadily increasing nausea.

Alistair was apparently oblivious to Lucy's suddenly green complexion; he simply shrugged and kicked at a rock on the ground in front of him. "I don't know. I doubt it. I've never liked it, that's for sure."

_Okay_, Lucy thought, _what does __**that**__ mean? Not a lover though, surely. He'd like having a lover, right? But it could still be something horrible. It __**must **__be something horrible. Why won't he get to the point?_

The thought scurried through her head, increasing in pitch and volume and ending in a drawn out scream of frustration. Yet all that came from her mouth was, "Huh?"

"I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in?" Alistair did not look up, just continued to stare at his shuffling feet. He looked like a little boy who'd been naughty and was having to confess to his misbehavior. Even though he couldn't see her, Lucy nodded and made impatient gestures for him to go on.

"Yes? And?" she said finally, after realizing that he wasn't going to continue without verbal encouragement.

"The reason he did that was because…well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my…half-brother, I suppose."

Lucy lost her ability to breathe. He was Maric's son? _King _Maric? Maric the bloody _Savior_? Andraste's flaming sword! What was she supposed to say to that? What did this mean? She'd been behaving as if he was just some…some _nobody_! And here he was, the last surviving member of the Theirin bloodline. The heir to Ferelden's throne! And had she actually been _flirting_ with him? Embarrassed didn't even begin to describe how she felt at that moment. Her already overtaxed mind searched desperately for something to say. _Anything_ that might help her save face, as if such a thing were possible.

She could see that Alistair was expecting her to speak. If she went much longer without saying anything, he might think her simple. "Ha! And you had me thinking you were just a garden variety bastard. You're not just any old bastard at all, are you? You're a _royal_ bastard!" she blurted and instantly wished she had just let him think her addled. _How many times did I just say "bastard?"_ she asked herself despondently. She actually had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting out one more "bastard" just for good measure.

But Alistair was laughing. "Ha! Yes, I guess it does at that. I should use that line more often."

He was looking at her now, and whatever he saw in her face wilted his smile. Lucy tried to arrange her face into something less shocked and appalled, but by the way he rushed on with his explanation, she doubted she was succeeding.

"I would have told you, but…it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan's rule and so they kept me secret. I've never talked about it to anyone." He sounded almost as if he were pleading with her.

Lucy held a hand up to stop him and shook her head. "No, I get it. It's none of my business, right?" She thought Alistair must not have heard her because he kept going, looking both sad and lost.

"Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me…even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn't want you to know as long as possible. I'm sorry."

She wondered if he thought her more likely to resent him or to coddle him. Maybe he thought she'd do both. He must know that her father had been a contender for the throne at one time. Perhaps he thought of her as some sort of competition. Even if it was true that his royal lineage had never meant anything to him before, it must now that he was the last man standing. Of course it did.

"I understand I think," she said, frowning. Yes, she understood. She understood that he'd wanted to come to Redcliffe so badly because Eamon would be able to confirm that Alistair was Maric's son and to help him claim the crown. She understood that he was preparing to leave her to face the Blight alone. She understood that, secreted away bastard or not, he was certainly illustrating his inborn noble capacity for treachery. She understood that she was angry and hurt and disappointed more than she had any real right to be.

Alistair let out a deep sigh and relaxed. "Good. I'm glad. It's not like I got special treatment for it, anyhow. At any rate, that's it. That's all I had to tell you. I thought you should know about it."

"Are you sure?" she spat. "Nothing else you need to get off your chest? No other deep, dark secrets you feel the need to share?"

"Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no. That's it. Just the prince thing," he answered, looking and sounding slightly wounded.

Lucy nodded, prepared to accept that as the end of the conversation, but her exasperation boiled over before she could turn away. "So why even tell me this? Why must I even know?" she nearly shouted.

"Because it will probably come up. I didn't want to walk into Redcliffe without you knowing the truth, that would be just…awkward."

"Oh? Awkward? You think so?" Lucy couldn't decide if she was angrier about his nonchalance about springing this on her or his affected confusion over her reaction.

He finally seemed nettled by her tone and became defensive. "I have no illusions about my status, however. It's always been made very clear that I'm a commoner and now a Grey Warden and in no way in line for the throne. And that's fine by me. No, if there's an heir to be found, it's Arl Eamon himself. He's not of royal blood, but he is Cailan's uncle…and more importantly, very popular with the people. Though…if he's really as sick as we've heard…no, I don't want to think about that, I really don't."

Lucy's prolonged glare softened as his words sank in. Could he possibly be telling the truth? Had she so completely misunderstood him? It was her turn to look hopelessly confused.

"So there you have it. Now can we move on, and I'll just pretend you still think I'm some…nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens."

All of her previous ire temporarily forgotten, Lucy suddenly wanted nothing more than to embrace Alistair and tell him she was sorry. Sorry for what? She wasn't entirely certain. Everything, she supposed. Her doubt, their individual and shared losses, the difficulties they were facing.

"Oh, Alistair," she said. "You don't really think that, do you?"

"No, I…I suppose not. I don't feel very lucky at all, to be honest."

And suddenly she was angry all over again. Was he actually sorry that he hadn't died at Ostagar? That _she_ hadn't died? Her own feelings about nobility aside, was Alistair harboring some ill will toward her because _she_ was noble? Did he think her some snobbish socialite unworthy of his consideration?

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Lucy knew that her irritation was uncalled for. She knew that she was being unreasonable and that her wild shifts in temper and mood weren't exactly normal. Her inability to control or even understand her own emotions only added to her frustration, however. She felt on edge and…_fluttery_ virtually all the time now, and she didn't know precisely why. She knew her feelings weren't due to her fear and worry over the impending Blight because the only time she didn't feel jittery and slightly disoriented was while she was fighting or talking tactics.

~***~

Redcliffe was a nightmare. They'd been stopped before ever truly entering the village. A panicked man named Tomas had nearly bowled them over at the bridge leading into the village, babbling nearly incoherent entreaties for help and muttering about evil beings from the castle. Before Lucy could really wrap her mind around anything he was saying, he was rushing off toward the center of the village, urging them to follow him. Seeing little alternative, they did.

Tomas led them to the Chantry where they met Eamon's younger brother, Bann Teagan. Teagan said little to put Lucy's mind at ease. He told them that Redcliffe was suffering nightly attacks by the walking dead. No one could reach the castle and the villagers' defenses were dwindling with each successive assault. Many had already been slaughtered, and without help, the rest were all but guaranteed to die as well.

Lucy could not but promise to do her best to help them. Even if they hadn't needed to reach Arl Eamon, she couldn't, in good conscience, leave these people to die. She and her companions ran around the town in a frenzy, attempting to prepare Redcliffe's militia and the few of Eamon's knights who weren't out on a quest for a possibly nonexistent holy relic.

She was utterly terrified at the thought of walking corpses, but she did her best to beat back her fear and assuage the villagers as much as was possible. She gave help wherever she could and also demanded it from those able bodied men reluctant to give it freely. She'd be damned if she would risk her neck and those of her companions for people who weren't willing to assist in their own defense.

She talked to many villagers and did what she could to boost their morale. She worried that she might be filling them with false hope, and she knew that she had made more than one promise that was likely beyond her power to keep. But she did what had to be done, and the others followed her lead. Not without reservation, but they followed nonetheless.

When night fell, Lucy believed that she was as prepared as it was possible to be. However, when she saw the first of the undead come shambling down the path from the castle toward the mill, she felt sure she was going to scream or faint or perhaps die of fright. Instead, she led her fellows into battle and ignored all thoughts that weren't to do with punching and kicking, hacking and slashing, cutting and stabbing, or destroying and striking down.

Wave upon wave of evil undead came at them unrelentingly. She lost all sense of time and space. She could hear the others around her, but she saw only a sea of bloody, mangled bodies and her own frantically swinging blades. The protracted exertion of fighting burned the muscles in her arms and legs, the acrid smoke of burning wood and flesh burned her eyes and lungs, the grisly scene all about her burned her mind and soul.

At some point, a militiaman ran up and shouted that the people below in the village square were under attack. They needed help. Lucy and the others left the Redcliffe knights to finish whatever of the creatures were left and sprinted down the hill. They arrived to find the small contingent of largely untrained villagers being swarmed by rotting monsters. She heard Alistair raise a battle cry in an effort to bring the creatures' attention onto him and off of the villagers. Together, they rushed into the fray.

After what felt like days of non-stop fighting, the fiends finally stopped coming. Lucy collapsed onto the blood and gore spattered ground, sweating and panting and grinning madly. They had done it. Cheers went up all around her. People clapped her on the back. She saw Alistair and Leliana shaking hands with the villagers, getting hugged, smiling modestly. Morrigan and Sten stood apart from the rest and apart from each other, but they both wore looks of quiet satisfaction and pride. Enkidu ran circles around them all, barking gleefully and stopping every once in a while for just long enough to receive a grateful pat here and there.

The remaining people of Redcliffe had made it through the night, and for a wonder, none of them had died in the process. Not one. It was indeed something of which they could all be proud. Lucy and her companions, Murdock and his militiamen, Ser Perth and his fellow knights, even those like Dwyn and Lloyd whose arms she'd had to twist.

The acknowledgement of their victory didn't last long. They still had the castle to think about--the castle from which the undead had issued in the first place. Teagan had no sooner told them about the secret passage from the mill to the castle's dungeon than Lady Isolde, Eamon's pretty (and much, much younger, Lucy did not fail to notice) wife, appeared, half demanding, half pleading for Teagan to return with her to the castle. She spun some half-baked tale about blood magic and malevolent forces that Lucy had trouble swallowing as anything even remotely like the whole truth.

Perhaps it was because she was already on edge or because she'd already cultivated certain ideas about this woman who had been the instrument of Alistair's effective exile, but Lucy immediately disliked everything about her. She disliked the sneer the woman wore when Lucy had dared to question her. She disliked the obvious disdain and barely concealed hostility the woman directed at Alistair. She disliked the whining tone the woman adopted while she spoke to Teagan. And most of all, she disliked Isolde's apparent disregard for the wellbeing of Redcliffe's villagers.

What she wanted to do was slap the woman, or possibly even knock her unconscious, and find out for herself what was actually happening in Redcliffe castle. However, when Teagan asked that she allow him to return with Isolde to the castle and then suggested that she and her companions use the secret passage on their own, Lucy complied. Grudgingly.

They encountered many more of the undead in the castle as well as the blood mage upon whom Isolde was so eager to lay all blame. His version of the story was only slightly more believable than the arlessa's. Eventually they found Teagan and Isolde as well as a demon possessed little boy. Though it was hard for Lucy to think of him as a little boy when he was so clearly out for blood.

Here again, Lucy found herself faced with impossible decisions that no one seemed overly eager to help her make. As much distaste as she felt toward Isolde and as horrified as she was by her first glimpse of an abomination, Lucy determined to do what she could to save them both. It certainly would be more expedient, easier, and maybe even wiser to let one or the other of them die, but as she could not comprehend becoming a slayer of innocents or a party to the slaying of innocents--even of those whose innocence was questionable at best--she agreed to lead her party to the Circle of Magi. After all, as Alistair was so quick to point out, they needed to go there anyway. Two birds, one stone and all that.

They had all been up for far too long to think of setting out for the tower straight away, what with fighting legions of corpses all night, so they elected to stay in Redcliffe for one more night and get properly equipped before beginning their next journey. Lucy suspected that, despite the fact that she was planning on going to great lengths to save the woman's life as well as her son's, Isolde greatly resented Teagan's invitation for them all to stay at the castle for the night. While she found this incredibly rude and distasteful, Lucy personally had no desire to spend an evening in such close proximity to the child abomination, his scheming, self-serving mother, or the conveniently "reformed" blood mage.

Thus, she elected to spend the night in one of the vacant houses now so abundant in Redcliffe. No reason to pass up the chance to sleep in a real bed. Who knew when the next opportunity to do so might arise? Unsurprisingly, the others felt the same. Also unsurprisingly, both Morrigan and Sten decided to search out separate accommodations, neither wanting to share space with the others when it wasn't absolutely necessary. Leliana wanted to go to the Chantry and help Mother Hannah if she could; she said she was sure to find a bed there now that the villagers could safely return to their own homes. That left Lucy and Alistair alone with the exception of Enkidu, who wasn't likely to offer much conversation regardless of his remarkable intelligence.

Tempted though she was to announce her intentions to find a house to herself (or to demand that he do so), Lucy's annoyance with Alistair wasn't enough to make her dismiss her reluctance to be alone. They scarcely looked at one another as they entered the house Lucy had chosen toward the outskirts of the village near the lake.

Once inside and unpacked, they took turns bathing. Lucy bathed twice; she had begun to think there might be no end to the grime and gore that coated her skin, but by the end of her second bath, she started to feel like something at least akin to clean. She had never been so grateful for a bath in her life. While Alistair took his turn, she started a fire in the shanty's stove. When he emerged, freshly scrubbed and rosy skinned, Lucy pointed at the stove and mumbled that she had found food.

They sat together at the small table in the unfamiliar house, wrapped in awkward silence, eating the food they found in the larder, and pointedly not discussing all the things that currently occupied the space between them, and Lucy tried not to imagine what the people who used to live there might have been like. She tried not to wonder if there had been children and how many and how old. She tried not to think about whether the house was empty because its previous inhabitants had fled or because they had been massacred by the unholy monsters that sweet little Connor had loosed upon their village.

Yes, she tried very hard. And the harder she tried, the more persistently the thoughts pried at her mind's edges. She felt rather gruesome, sitting in a stranger's home, eating his food, and planning on sleeping in his bed. Not so gruesome that she had any intention of _not_ doing those things, but still quite gruesome. She looked across the table at Alistair, who was devoting his full attention to the food still before him, and wondered if he was thinking any of the same things as she.

Before she could look away again, Alistair raised his head and met her eyes. He smiled tentatively at her, and Lucy's morbid thoughts floated away only to be replaced by bewildered irritation. She furrowed her brow and frowned at him. It was his defeated sigh that drove her to speak.

"Alistair, why didn't you tell me? Why keep it secret?" She hoped she didn't sound as dejected as she felt.

"You never asked?"

She could hear in his voice that he was wary of confrontation. He knew she was already upset and didn't want to upset her further if he could avoid it. Lucy understood that her incongruous reaction to Alistair's confession was what had caused his wariness, and it saddened her. She was only just beginning to come to terms with the idea that the true source of her distress was not that Alistair was a noble, but that he might think that the only reason she had an interest in him was _because_ he was a noble.

Lucy wanted to kick herself for not being more forward, for not recognizing her feelings for what they were sooner. Granted, she was not personally experienced in _actual_ romantic relations between real, living, breathing people, but she had read enough that she would have expected to be able to identify attraction when she felt it. Of course, none of her reading had ever hinted at how incredibly complex and alien those feelings could be.

She sighed. "Was it because you don't trust me? Do you think I…it's just that I thought you…I thought that…I thought we were…friends," Lucy finished lamely. She was horrified to find that she was close to tears. _Oh please, Maker, don't let me start __**crying**__. This is already bizarre enough_, she thought.

"We are friends. I didn't mean to…it wasn't supposed to…" Alistair was fumbling for the right words, and Lucy could feel the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes more insistently. Her heart sank at his easy use of the word "friends." It was not the word she had wanted to hear. "Let me explain," he sighed.

Lucy nodded and looked down at the table, still trying not to cry. That would be easier if she didn't actually have to look at him while he spoke.

"The thing is, I'm used to not telling anyone who didn't already know. It was always a secret. Even Duncan was the only Grey Warden who knew. And then after the battle when I should have told you…I don't know. It seemed like it was too late by then. How do you just tell someone that?"

"Not like this," Lucy muttered without looking up. She thought about what he said, though. She imagined it _would_ be hard for him to broach the subject with her, especially knowing she was a teryn's daughter. He must have worried that she would react adversely to finding out that the great hero Maric had produced an illegitimate child. Bastards were certainly not uncommon in noble circles, but they were hardly openly discussed or accepted. "But I suppose I understand."

"I…I should have told you anyway. It was important for you to know. I guess part of me liked you not knowing."

"But why? Were you hoping I'd make an even bigger fool of myself or did you just enjoy keeping me ignorant?" she asked, now finding it much harder to hold back the tears. She looked at him as calmly as she could and waited for his answer.

Alistair shook his head. "It's just that anyone who's ever found out has treated me differently afterwards. I was the bastard prince instead of just being Alistair. I know that must sound stupid to you, but I hate that it's shaped my entire life. I never wanted it, and I certainly don't want to be king. The very idea of it terrifies me."

"Think who you're talking to, Alistair. Don't you think I might understand what it's like to be treated differently because of who my father is? To have my life shaped by something over which I have absolutely no control? Of _course_ your being a prince changes how people think of you and treat you. How could it not? My entire life, I've been instructed in the proper etiquette for a noblewoman, and I've been taught about how to properly interact with other nobles. Whether or not I like everything about being a noble or even about nobility in general, it's who I am, who I've always been. I can't just turn it off because I'm also a Grey Warden now. Finding out that I've been failing to uphold that etiquette in front of the last Theirin has been a bit disconcerting to say the least. But I _do_ understand, and I don't think your feelings are stupid." As she finished, Lucy turned her face away so that Alistair wouldn't see her wiping away the tears that had finally started to roll down her cheeks.

"For all the good it does me. My blood seems certain to haunt me no matter what I do. I guess I should be thankful that Arl Eamon is far more likely to inherit the throne. If he's all right. I hope he's all right," Alistair said. He rose from his seat at the table and walked around to where she sat. As he stood behind her, he put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. I…I guess I was just hoping that you would like me for who I am. It was a dumb thing to do."

Lucy wiped her eyes once more and then looked up into Alistair's face, her eyes full of earnestness and candor. "But that's the problem, Alistair. I _do_ like you. Very much. I fear maybe _too_ much. Not that you'll believe me now, but it's got nothing to do with your blood."

His firm grip on her shoulder relaxed and he took a small step back, his forehead creased in confusion or disbelief or both, his mouth twitching, and his eyes wide. "Oh, I…oh," he sputtered. He opened and closed his mouth several times before finding his voice again. "You see, I didn't know that."

Lucy turned away from him again and laid her face in the palms of her hands, crying as silently as she could manage.

"Obviously," she whispered.


End file.
